Happenstance
by etteloc
Summary: Two new chapters! A bit of backstory on how we got to this powerless place, and then the great diaspora of the X-Men post-High Evolutionary. There's revelation and self-awareness enough to go around.
1. Prologue: Sunday Afternoon

Author's Note: This is totally, totally AU. There's a tentative story surrounding this. You want it? Review and let me know what you think. Some suggestions are greatly appreciated as well; please check my journal (URL in my bio) for other notes as well.

Brownie points go to the person who can name what event in the 616 I have toyed with.

* * *

Remy LeBeau beheld the little girl in front of him, her back to him and body akimbo. Her cool grey eyes scanned the painting with the meticulous assessment often associated with the most anal of art collectors. Finally she sighed and looked to him.

"I dunno." Inserted here was a tongue click, courtesy of her mother. "It's not 'xactly Van Gogh, Papa."

He grinned, knowing exactly from whom she'd picked up that tone of voice. "Does that mean your Papa gotta hire out for this job? I can always shake your brother awake, you know." He gestured to the resting boy in the Radio Flyer next to him.

"Can not," the drowsy boy murmured, dark head momentarily rising from its place against his father's bunched up sweatshirt. "I'm on break. Plus I'm scoutin' for anyone on to us. "

"So you are. Lord knows we need one of those. Keep up the fine work."

"Merci, Papa." He commenced his position.

"How much, 'gain?" his daughter inquired, foot graciously tapping on the cool marble of the museum floor. "I don' work for free."

"Course you don't, and I pay only the highest for my children. Five and an ice cream." _And a hundred in your savings, ma petite chérie. _Thieves never flat out used their children without payment of some sort.

She considered this. "Hmm. Or like value?"

"Right. That's our system."

"Five, a fizzy drink, and a thing of Pop Rocks. The buck stops here."

The last comment nearly caused him to chuckle, had it not been for the seriousness in her tone. He made a mental note to have her spend less time in on Guild Council meetings, especially those ran by Jean-Luc. "Done deal, but if Mummy asks, you didn't have candy."

"If Mummy asks," his son interjected from his place in the wagon. "We weren't at the museum at _all_."

Remy nodded seriously, considering the consequences he'd face when their mother discovered her darlings were on assignment. "We'll work on an alibi later."

"Nothin' too compl'cated this time, 'kay?"

* * *

He hadn't planned on having children. The idea of having such small, malleable minds under his tutelage had scared the living daylights out of him. He often had taken great precautions to ensure that fatherhood was delayed as long as possible, but if in the event something were to have, _ahem¸ _slipped, he also made damn sure his tentative children (and their prospective mothers) would know how to reach him. His greatest fear was that his childhood would be relived by one of his own.

But then one day, quite literally in that clichéd sort of way, he found himself at a hospital cradling a small bundle of a boy. The emotions he felt coursing through his body were enough to swear fealty and love until the world ended or death took him - longer, if at all possible. It had been a powerful moment, to realise that with this child, he finally had made a blood relative.

Sappy, soul-bearing moments aside, he hadn't realised how fun it would be to have protégés, especially when he worked.

"Are these your children?" The saccharine voice of a museum tour guide took Remy off-guard and that set his carefully laid plan into motion a few minutes earlier than he would have liked.

"Why yes," he drawled, and slipped into his native accent. He would kill for charm at the moment, but he worked with what he had. "My daughter here was admiring this fine work of art."

"We _always _go to the museums on Sunday," the small girl added, a thousand-watt smile lighting up her face. She turned back to the painting, her face away from the inquisitive worker, and indulged in a genuine grin, delighted someone had walked into their perfectly laid plans. "What's the colours mean?"

Equally pleased that such a small child took an interest in fine art and taking no interest herself in the likelihood of this situation being genuine, the guide began to talk excessively about schemes and tones, totally oblivious to the patient stares both father and daughter were giving her.

"What's those?" the girl interjected after a few seconds exposition on the painting's use of blue, pointing to a small blinking light near the top of the frame.

"Oh! Those are motion sensors." The woman bent down to face the child in that insipid and dull-witted way that makes children cringe and feel stupid. "See, if a big bad thief comes to try and steal our paintings, that light detects them before they know what to do!"

"How?" said the girl inquisitively, at the same time her father asked, "Expensive system, I'd bet."

"Safelock 3500. State of the art," the guide smirked. She turned back to the girl. "You know...if you're interested, I can give you a behind the scenes look."

"Behind the paintings?" An innocent question from a rather innocent-looking child. Remy reminded himself to congratulate her later – she'd been diligently practicing this for script for weeks. 

As planned, the guide laughed and shook her head. "No, no dear. Behind the walls."

Father and daughter breathed an identical syllable. "_Oh." _

* * *

Anna Raven was indulging herself in a late lunch at a local museum café known for their gelato. Granted, her lunch was more gelato and less salad, but she had had a long day. Saving the world had been one job, but she sometimes thought that regular living was harder. There were less perks in the real world.

"Hungry much?" 

Her companion smirked as she made her way through a second bowl of strawberry confectionary, hell-bent on consuming a third. Handsome blond devil though he was, he was ever curious as to how her body concealed the effects of all the sweets she was so fond of and never missed on opportunity to poke fun.

"You're just jealous 'cause you don't know the glory of ice cream and its many cousins," she retorted, sucking her spoon clean, then airplaning another spoonful tauntingly into her mouth.

He held up his hands in mock defense. "Hey, lactose-intolerant. I can't help it."

"Pussy. Suck it up and live a little." That had been her motto for the past seven years, one that had worked surprisingly well. Elaborately waving her eating arm with another mound of gelato, she playfully batted her eyes toward her cohort, then looked away bashfully.

"Why Ah do believe yah're playin' hard to get," he said, channelling Rhett Butler as if his life depended on it.

"You're accent's horrible," she admonished, finally eating her spoonful. "Though I can't blame you, being a Yank and all."

"Yes, well..." He continued to babble on about dialects and such, but her eyes had picked up something familiar off to her right. His back was turned to her, but the gait was identical. That couldn't be...

"Anna!" He caught her before she made a larger fool of herself, steadying her by gracefully clasping her arm in his grasp. "Are you all right? Is something the matter?"

"No, no," she said, collecting herself. "Thought I saw someone I knew from school, that's all. Wasn't them. Leastways, I don't think it was..."

She sat down, slightly embarrassed and continued her lunch and conversation and was teased mercilessly about matters of balance and the effects too much sugar on her brain. She listened half-heartedly and laughed loudly when he did jar something humorous.

But in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder ... was it him?

No, it couldn't be. It wasn't the thought of Remy LeBeau being in a museum that shocked her as much as him being seen in a museum in broad daylight, on _children's_ day, no less. And why would he be pulling a wagon around? She chuckled inwardly at the thought. Indeed. Remy, a doting father? That'd be the day.

* * *

"And that's about it." The tour guide's ever-present smile was starting to grate on Remy's nerves and he could sense his daughter's twitchiness growing with every step. He wasn't enjoying being the centre of her wandering eye, either. "Well, now that you know the museum inside out, do you have any more questions?" _She must be an Olympic eye batting champion, _he thought as they made their way through the last employee-only door.

"No, I think we're about done for the day." He contemplated with just keeping his mouth shut, but that strategy never seemed to work. He went for the stinger. "Gotta get home to Mummy." He cocked his head and beamed one of his knee-jerker grins towards the enamoured guide. "M'wife, that is."

"She's gonna have a baby," his daughter added remorsefully.

"Three's a charm," her father added, still grinning. That was a good thought. At least _he_ thought it was. His wife had other ideas about her current condition.

They were halfway out of the door when an oomph! caught their attention.

"Sorry," the boy said sleepily, pulling himself off the floor. "I fell off."

"Oh, you poor thing!" the guide simpered, mollycoddling him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine. Ain't you?" Remy held out a hand to pull his son upright, but the boy shook his tousled curly head.

"I'm fine, Papa." Bracing himself against the doorframe, he plopped himself back in the wagon. "Can we go home now?" And thus the last phase of their little mission was complete.

"Oh yeah. We'll get on our way." A trained eye would have caught the meaning behind the wink that followed, but only a highly advanced security camera would have picked up on what exactly the young LeBeau had placed in the door latch.

Luckily for the thieving three in this story, that was not the case.

* * *

There is a small switch on small children that causes them to get Very Irritable very quickly, and unluckily for many parents, the switch of one child triggers the switches of other children. As it was, by the time Remy manoeuvred his crew to the exit, all three of them were near the squabbling stage.

In these kind of high stress situations, sense are heightened (none for the better), and every sound in the already noisy room amplified in his aching head.

Then suddenly, over the chatter of passer-bys and through the bickering of his two children, he thought he heard a most familiar laugh.

_Non_, he thought. _It's not her. Can't be. _That didn't stop him from straining his neck trying to see from where the sound came from. _Aww, Remy-boy, give it up. It could be anyone. It's not like she was the only woman in this world with that exact laugh. After seven years, it's not like..._

"Ow! Papa!"

"Shit! I'm sorry!"

"Quarter in the swear jar!"

Three crabby LeBeaus quickly exited the museum.

* * *

That night Remy and Rogue would both go to their respective apartments – Rogue's decorated to the nines with eclectic knickknacks and a colour scheme that screamed Frida Kahlo. Remy's was littered with toys and copious amounts of unpacked boxes; they hadn't been in town for more than three weeks. Rogue would talk with her friend for two complete hours before shoeing him out ("My neighbours think you're a gentleman, sugah. Let's not let them think otherwise.") and then listened to three messages on her answering machine: two from other gentlemen callers and one from Raven ("Damn it Rogue, _pick up the phone_. I know you're there."). Remy would be met at the door by a slightly perturbed and very pregnant wife ("Your radar must be workin' again, chére.") whose mood quickly changed to delighted when she discovered both children were ready to crash for the night ("It's seven o'clock! This makes you a god, you know.") and then returned to dismayed when she guessed the cause ("You were on a pinch, weren't you?").

Rogue would punish herself for the gelato overdose by doing intensive kickboxing to the sounds of ACDC while Remy redeemed himself by unpacking several boxes and offering a foot rub to his wife. They would both catch a glimpse of the news, get disgruntled, and switch to the Daily Show. Remy would then work on Guild business and Rogue would return Raven's call. Both exercises would exhaust and annoy them both. He would shower, she would take a bath. He'd tiptoe around the apartment and check in on his sleeping family, she would pet her cat until he purred. Then, sometime after midnight, they would both snuggle into their respective beds.

But neither of them would sleep.


	2. A Slight, Silent Problem

_AN: Now, you didn't think this was solely R&R, did you? Half the story is here. More comments at the journal. A huge thanks to Silent Doom who reminded me that I had totally forgotten to add in breaks. _

Henry McCoy was enjoying his lunch one sunny afternoon. Of course, he had no idea it was sunny outside anymore than he knew he should wear a scarf when he left. He was happily confined in the climate-controlled and nearly windowless laboratory of the university where he worked.

Hank had spent most of the past seven years as a researcher and occasionally taught an upper level course to graduate students, usually in genetics. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than doing his own research, it was the pedagogical process. Without the constant burdens of combat, threat of Legacy, or the nuances associated with being a medical practitioner in a mansion full of highly active superheroes, he had time to do what he truly loved to do around people who loved it as much as he did. No one here was seen as odd or antisocial to spend countless hours on the most tedious of tests. He mentally kicked himself often for not doing this sooner.

Today, he noted between Twinkies, was kind of slow. Usually there was a countless number of people going in and out of the lab – techs, grad students, visiting dignitaries, professors. Then he remembered it was Saturday, and only a dedicated few gave up their mornings to work. Hank found he got a lot more done on the weekends.

"Dr McCoy? Could you come here for a sec?" Dominic Lucarelli had been a student of Hank's since he had started as an undergrad. He was in his second year as a graduate student and was progressing at a remarkable rate. Hank had taken a special liking to him not only because of their similarities eschatology wise, but especially in the theme of his research topic: the effect of Operation: Zero Tolerance on former mutants. To Hank's dismay, the information Dominic had found so far was quite boring: no glitches in how the mutations were quelled, no effects on humans or the evolutionary process. Nothing. It was as if mutants had never existed, and thus Dominic's topic was considered controversial for simply bringing the topic up. "I need you to verify a few numbers for me. This can't be right."

Forehead momentarily crinkled, Hank stuffed the last of his greatest vice into his mouth and walked over to the humming computer where Dom was.

"You see the numbers for live births?" Hank nodded. "I started tracing them last month…ran out of stuff to document, you know? Everything else had been steady. Former mutants have been indistinguishable from baseline humans for what, seven years now?"

Still nodding, Hank pointed out what he thought Dom was looking for. "The number for live births from mutant parents corresponds with that of total births. Former mutants aren't procreating any more or less. I don't see where there's a problem."

"Devil's in the details, Dr. McCoy," Dominic grimaced. "You can't do a blood test for the mutant gene like they used to…it doesn't show up. So it's damn near impossible to track who's who unless you do some major hacking."

"What are you getting at?" Hank's curiosity was officially peaked. He hadn't done any research on mutant behaviour since High Evolutionary's tactics had been announced safe five years ago.

"Birth defects. Weird ones. Doctors submit details of unusual births to us so we can see if there are patterns."

"And?" Hank did not like how this conversation was going. The sticky-sweet aftermath of his Twinkie was choking him a little now. His heart started to beat faster.

Dom pulled up a chart documenting the births in the past seven years at one New York City hospital. "All of the patients in this study are, or were, rather, mutants."

The sinking feeling of dread rose from the pit of Hank's stomach. "What sort of defects?"

"Oh, anything. Green skin. Scales. Elongated backbones, strange hair colours, fur, you name it, it's shown up."

_Is it April? _Hank thought. _He's pulling my leg._ He decided to point out the logical fallacy in Dominic's theory. "Why, then, hasn't anyone heard of these freak occurrences? Surely this would make the news if children were still being born mutants."

"Mystery to me, too, until I did some research of my own. Went to the doctors. You know what they said?" Hank shook his head. "It – the mutation, that is – _corrected_ itself within a half hour of the birth. As if nature had caught its flaw, giggled, then patched it up. Freaky weird, I guess. You could _watch_ it happen."

Silence followed as Hank tried to figure this out in his head. "So that would mean a mother's womb…"

"… acts as a shield from High Evolutionary's process."

"Oh dear. Show me those numbers again."

"Sure thing. Tell me what you notice and then tell me it's not true." The page pulled up and Hank saw that the number of children born with these affects from mutant parents was infinitesimal -- .01 the first year after High Evolutionary. The next year was at .02, then .04, then .08, and so on.

It had been awhile since Hank had been rendered speechless – Warren's bachelor party came to mind– but when words found their way to his mouth, they were straight from that of Captain Obvious. "This can't be good."

* * *

Around the same time Hank was discovering exactly how bad things were about to get, Remy was experiencing it first hand.

"I'm ... at a loss," the doctor stammered, trying to explain what has just happened to the flabbergasted and sleep deprived man in front of him. "Honestly, in all my years here, I've _never_ seen this happen before. It's usually the other way around, in fact. Quite frankly, I'm surprised it even..."

"S'ok," Remy heard himself saying. "What's done is done. You couldn't have stopped it if you tried." The shock he'd experienced was phenomenal. In all of his years, throughout all of his adventures, nothing was going to top this. He still wasn't sure how he was managing to speak; it all felt numb.

After a pause of silence, the doctor continued. "I don't suppose you'd like to see her right now, even though it's been..."

Reality came crashing back around him. Act now. Feel later. He stood up and breathed in. "I've been waiting nine months, haven't I?"

* * *

Half an hour after their discovery, and now armed with Chinese food, Hank and Dominic had poured over countless pages of records. Hank had a pad of some of the more interesting cases, but there was just too much to digest in one setting. He had a feeling he wasn't going to get home that night.

It wasn't just the defects that occurred at birth that were alarming, even though they were 'corrected' shortly after. 'Nullified' would have been a better term. Serious medical conditions and early childhood death were beginning to be far more prevalent in the children of former mutants, especially with those born with defects.

"It's not just former mutants," Dominic quietly added. "There's a tiny percentage of children of baseline humans with these effects, too."

"Of course," Hank had murmured, not taking his eyes from his paper. "Happened before High Evolutionary." A thought occurred to him. "For the unfortunate few who did die...what are their death certificates saying?"

"SIDS for a lot of them, some are being covered up by 'accidental'. One's listed spontaneous combustion ."

Hank shuddered. The Chinese food wasn't sitting well with him now. He needed tea. "This can't be good."

"You're really concerned about this, aren't you?"

Hank arched an eyebrow. "Why shouldn't we? Sooner or later – and I'm going to bet it's the former – this will affect everyone. We need to, I mean, we _should_ have, caught this years ago." He sighed that world-wearied breath of defeat, apathy, and procrastination. "We should have fought harder," he whispered.

As a scientist, he'd a first been adamant about not fooling with Mother Nature, and had been more or less told to shut up when he voiced his concerns. People were happy without the social and moral burdens of mutations. Things were working out. _It was going to be okay. _Coercion by the masses had lulled him into this sleep and suddenly, awake and drowsy, he was being forced to conquer it without a cup of caffeine, both metaphorical and real.

"I was 16 when High Evolutionary took over," Dominic said. "I was always worried I would have a mutation. Never happened, but you never know. Then I read about these kids and I wonder what would be better...me having one or them suffering like that. Choice seems obvious, don't you think?"

"Mmm." More silence. The situation was bordering on overwhelming. People in the hallway outside of the research area were laughing, walking. Computers hummed in the distance. The boxes of Chinese remnants were starting to stink and nauseate Hank.

Dom broke the silence. "Kind of makes you think they jumped the gun for giving that High Evolutionary guy the Nobel for science and peace, doesn'it?"

"_Kind_ of? It was a farce at the time!" Hank paused to look intently at one paper for a second, scanning the information. Surely there was no way a graduate student had time to do all of this... "Dom, where did this information come from? Isn't it..."

"...breaking privacy laws? Overlooking doctor/patient confidentiality codes?" the student admitted sheepishly. "Yeah, all of the above. But don't you think it's more important than..."

"Without a doubt, my friend. But you know what that means..."

"We can't submit it to the public without alerting everyone mentioned in these records." It was Dom's turn to sigh. "That's 100,000 people."

"Good Lord. How, I ask you?"

He shrugged. "It's what happens when your girlfriend is a hacktivist and knows people from all over. I wouldn't have half of this if it weren't for some chick at MIT. Every time we'd reach a dead end, she'd pull us out." He stood up and closed his eyes in defeat. "And now it's worth shit."

"On the contrary," Hank interjected. "I'm glad you showed me this. Your manner of obtaining information is disappointing, but it's true, and that would require more..."

"There's another guy at Caltech and a girl at Georgetown doing the exact same study, only with different people."

_Please let it be an anomaly, please let it be an anomaly... _It was a vain, vain hope.

"The results are hauntingly similar, if not identical."

Hank thought himself to be above the use of vindictive vernacular. Was there nothing more vulgar than those four-letter words? The time seemed appropriate and stars and garters were hardly enough to contain the mess that was spiralling like a double helix in front of him. "Fuck."

* * *

When Charles Xavier been released by the government and allowed back to Salem Center, he'd found it extremely difficult to adapt to that huge and empty house. Jean had filled him in on the details of what had happened during his absence and even stayed with him for a while. But Jean was still young and felt a need to continue living, with or without Scott. So she'd left for upstate New York, and again the house was empty.

Even when the reconstruction was completed and the worst of the chilly drafts had ceased their seeping, it lacked that feeling of home that once filled it when over twenty to forty people lived there at one time. Part of his loneliness stemmed from the fact that he could no longer take comfort in the fact that there were other minds about him.

So he'd started to rent the rooms out to visitors who didn't care for New York City's urban atmosphere and wished to stay for a lengthy period of time. The feeling wasn't quite the same as it was with his X-Men; this was temporary, and the cordiality between his guests pained him. He almost chided himself for thinking about it, but what would he give for a spat erupt!

At the same time, the space between his minds and others had given him a lot of freedom and whole lot less responsibility. He was still a child psychologist – children reacted better with the wheelchair than grown-ups generally did -- but the rest of his time, when he wasn't entertaining and seeing to the needs of his guests, he spent his time thinking. One day he wished to write a memoir. But for now? He was honestly enjoying this lulled and carefree life.

Charles Xavier was not surprised to see an e-mail from Henry McCoy sitting in his inbox; Hank's way of keeping in touch involved mailing random quotes from his reading and jargoned details about how his life was going. It was more than what his other former students supplied; some he doubted he would be able to trace if need be.

Stranger things had happened, though, than an e-mail containing the subject: What Fools These Mortals Be. It was odd if Hank _didn't_ invoke William Shakespeare at least once in his sporadic epistles.

By the time he would read the body of the letter his heart was pounding. By the time he would look over the attachments his hands were shaking with the anticipation of several unknown fears.

A small part of him had expected this to happen sooner or later; preferably after he died and it wouldn't be his problem. The other part of him leapt with excitement; could his team be united once more?

When his mind was torn and confused, he often found himself strolling back and forth down the longest hall of the mansion. The movement of his wheelchair reflected that of his mind: in constant movement, accelerating and switching gears when needed, creating the perfect symmetry needed to think properly.

With each revolution of his wheels, his mind became more determined and anticipating. He'd have to stop taking reservations for his rooms – every room in the mansion was already booked seven months in advance. Then he'd have to find bankrollers again: Hank would need a med lab, and he shuddered to think in what condition the chambers that once held Cerebro and the Danger Room were.

First, however, he would need someone as equally persuasive as him to help him gather the remains of the mutant world.

* * *

In Erik Lensherr's opinion, Charles Xavier had the annoying habit of using famous sayings of pacifists in his subject headings. This week's chosen statement of wisdom and passive resistance? A quote from a certain Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior: _We must learn to live together as brothers or we will perish together as fools._

For the very first time in many years, as Erik read the message sent and glanced at the forwarded attachments, he felt himself agreeing with every word Charles proposed. The memory of having the Earth's magnetic fields submit to him returned and burned persistently in his mind.

Unlike his friend, Erik found no need to pace. He knew well enough he was speeding along with the Earth as it rocketed through space (for Erik, retirement in South Florida had meant reading a good deal of physics) and found no need assist.

He smiled contently and sipped the last of his tea. "So it begins."

* * *

_God Almighty, wasn't that the most boring chapter in the world? Details at the journal. – L. _


	3. That could have gone worse

Author's note: Thank God I took good notes when I was 17. For those of you confused about what events got tweaked, refer to issues #379/380 of Uncanny X-Men, and #99 of X-Men. I've played around with several events from those issues – namely, how well High Evolutionary knew of Sinister (in this version, Sinister fails), and how the mutants react to how High Evolutionary shielded mutations. Let's not think too hard about that: just know that there's a space station that emits a charm that prevents those on Earth from having mutations, and that's how our story will go from here. Also, Wolverine's adamantium is not bonded to his bones, say my notes. So here we go: the lost chapters of "Happenstance."

I also played around with the order of chapters – these should have came before the one I posted in October.

________________

_**At Christmastime; a brief summary…**_

The world is in a temporary uproar as mutations disappear completely, without notice and without reprieve. Those with extreme mutations die from the transition, while many with minor mutations are rendered with flu-like symptoms for a week as their bodies adjusted to the change. Those with the power of flight or other physics-defying mutations, lose their lives if the change occurred while they utilized their powers.

At 1407 Greymalkin Lane in Westchester County, the residents shuffled around, confused by their new vision and clumsiness, as was the case with Remy LeBeau, while Hank McCoy shed exactly like a cat well into February.

After the chaos subsided, a man who called himself High Evolutionary came forward to accept credit for this gift to mankind, calling the scheme Operation: Zero Tolerance. His goal was to eradicate mutations in order to lessen the grievances they had brought to society. Governments and many of those in power praised his controversial yet effective methods.

Those at 1407 Greymalkin Lane, caught off guard and in a strange and newly weakened state, found themselves staring dully at the television set watching it unfold before their very eyes, unable to do a thing.

_January, two weeks after Operation: Zero Tolerance_

Herbert Edgar Wyndham, or, as he was now known, High Evolutionary, could hardly believe the events of the past few weeks: what had begun as his thesis in his Ph.D. program had progressed to the culmination of the project, with extreme success.

"I've been looking over the results for the past few days," he beamed to his mentor. "Everything that we predicted that could happen did! It went _perfectly,_" he gushed. "Without a hitch!" Governments and scientists from around the world were calling around the clock wishing to congratulate him for fixing the mutant 'problem.'

Dr Essex, Wyndham's wizened mentor, nodded feebly, dabbing his balding head with a handkerchief. "Indeed." He inhaled deeply and seemed disoriented. "I can't help but noticing, though, that I've felt a little…queasy since the changes."

Inside the façade of the old man, Nathaniel Essex was panicking. At first, he hadn't been worried at the loss of his powers; he knew it was part of the process. The machine Wyndham had made would take a day or two to detect the small chip he had placed inside it to shield _him_ from the effects.

Four days later, however, he knew something was off. The only problem was that it was difficult to control check a machine that currently orbited the Earth, when you yourself were in the body of an octogenarian man.

Wyndham looked at him quizzically. "Oh? You never mentioned that you were a mutant, Doctor."

"Perhaps it is the change in weather…"

"Or," Wyndham said kindly, "it's your body acting its age."

Essex stopped cold. "Pardon?"

There had been slips in his cover early on, and once Wyndham's suspicions grew large enough, he started doing a little research on the side. Who was Doctor Essex? What were his credentials and his motivations? He hadn't thought twice when he accept him as his mentor years ago, but when the truth came clear, the rest made sense.

"Your body is acting its age," he repeated. "You're an old man, Nathaniel Essex. Your time has long past."

Essex's breaths were long and jagged. He felt himself slipping to his knees, the tile floor of the laboratory cold through his pant legs.

"I found your chip in the machine before we launched it into orbit. A fascinating device. If I should ever have need of it, I'll be sure to use it and remember you and your caus. It will remind me, you see, of why I have to go on, why I must persevere. Because there will always be people like _you_."He paused and looked on importantly. "And I must be the one to stop it."

Essex licked his lips and managed to croak, "Why?"

"Why? Why are you dying so quickly now? Because I modified that chip, and placed it somewhere safer. You'll be dead soon. But I do apologize – I didn't realize it'd be this drawn-out.

"But why did I decide to take you out. You told me something once, when I was stuck on a problem: 'You simply avoided the questions whose answers you feared, Herbert.' Well, I feared the worst about you, and I was right. You had ulterior motives! You actually wanted to _experiment_ on those poor souls!" His voice had escalated to a passionate, indignant rage.

Herbert Edgar Wyndham considered himself a moral, ethical man. When he discovered his mentor's past, the massacres of people with "undesirable" traits, the manipulation of down-on-their-luck individuals for the promotion of his own desires, he had almost become physically ill.

But Wyndham also knew that Dr Essex possessed much of the knowledge needed to complete his project. So, in the name of science, he used this man and his brain. It was justified, he thought: the entire world would benefit, and his man, when he was done, would be dead.

And it had been tough, hiding from a telepath. He had gone so far as to create a portable device shielding his thoughts from him without detection.

"And so you will die. But don't take it so hard; many have gone before you." Wyndham's voice was sympathetic once again. "Go to your wife, go to your son. They've been waiting for you so long in the beyond. You've been due for some time. Go, Nathaniel, to Rebecca and Adam! And be at peace!"

With that, Nathaniel Essex left this world, a victim of his own glitch.

_______

"All right teams," Storm announced, turning off the simulation device in the Briefing Room. "We depart for the space station where the shield is kept in three hours. We're not going to have much time up there. When we arrive, it is of the utmost importance that we maintain a respectful and diplomatic tone."

She looked to the assembled crew with tired, blue eyes, scanning for reactions. Their mission would have been simple, had they been equipped with the usual cast of telekinetics, teleporters, energy converters, or brute, unnatural strength. As it was, they had little more than their mouths and power of persuasion to convince High Evolutionary that his idea was horrendously erroneous, however well-intentioned.

"And what if we're not received as diplomatically as you're plannin'?" Rogue asked. "We're not plannin' to come armed, are we?"

"No-o," Storm admitted, her mind suddenly reeling at the list of things that could go wrong. "I'm hedging my bets on the overall peaceful nature of High Evolutionary. He doesn't think he's causing any real harm to mutants, so I doubt he'll act rashly against us?" Her tone betrayed her optimism.

"You don't sound so sure, chere."

"My friend, there is little I am sure about right now," she confessed. She looked helplessly to the others. "Does anyone else have any ideas?" _Everything we stand for depends on this mission, _she thought. _And if we fail? Will they hate me for it?_

"Darlin'," Logan hacked from the corner, pulling himself straighter in his chair. "We trust you. And if they do give you shit…" They all cringed as a series of violent coughs interrupted him, quieted only when Jean poured him a glass of water. He nodded his thanks and drank greedily. "…kick 'em straight in the balls."

She smiled weakly and looked up at the team, now laughing at Logan's bravado. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and offered a quick prayer: _Goddess, help_! "Three hours, everyone, be at the Blackbird ready to go. Thankfully that nor any of the Shi'ar technology was affected by this new technology."

"I've got Dramamine if anyone needs it," Jean offered as they made their way back to the main part of the mansion. "Some of us discovered that our mutant genes covered up a case of motion sickness."

"Or several cases," Bobby said sheepishly, causing a few nervous laughs.

Rogue smiled at him and took and squeezed her friend's hand, grateful for any kind of humor. "I've got a bad feelin' about all of this," she said softly.

"Yeah," Bobby replied as the elevator ascended to the main floor. "What I would give for a tele-anything right about now."

"What I would give to _be_ a tele-anything right about now," Jean retorted dryly next to him. "Let's not count our chickens before they're hatched, Rogue. This might just turn out all right."

Rogue sighed as the doors opened. "Well, you can always hope, sugah."

* * *

"What did Moira say to Logan at his last appointment?" Hank whispered to Ororo as they prepared the Blackbird for flight. "He must have told you if she knew of anything."

"He didn't want me to pass it around," she said curtly, checking a few switches and testing procedures. "He doesn't like to be a burden to anyone."

"A burden?!" Hank cried a little too loudly, causing a few heads to perk up outside the cockpit. He whispered again. "A _burden_? I study these things professionally and he doesn't want me to…"

"He didn't go."

"What?"

"He didn't go to his last appointment because he was dead sure we'd be successful on this mission." Her voice was tight as she looked ahead. "He wanted to show he had faith in me." Her voice cracked and dwindled to a whisper.

"Oh my stars…"

"What do I do, Henry?" she said, her eyes brim with tears. "What if we fail? You've been reading the news, right?"

He nodded. "It's going to take a miracle to pull this off. The odds are pretty well stacked against us." He bit his lip and patted her back. "If it falls through, " he said magnanimously, "I shall be the first to partake in the balls-kicking."

She smiled and pulled the controls into drive. "I'd consider it to be a sufficient consolation prize. How's that for desperate?"

* * *

"That could have gone worse," Jean said after a silent take off from High Evolutionary's space station.

"Mmm," Ororo replied, not daring to speak and betray her own emotions.

It had been if High Evolutionary _knew_ of their impending arrival. The two teams of X-Men stormed the complex only to find a table surrounded by the ethical geneticist and about 20 UN officials.

"Ah!" He rose to greet them. "How good of you to come! Here, ladies and gentlemen, we have some of the people who carried the genetic defect, often to a gross extent." He motioned towards Hank. "This man was once covered in blue fur and possessed the agility of a cat! Now, as you can see, he's as indistinguishable for mutant as the next person."

"I beg your…" Hank began, only to be interrupted.

"Please, sir," Ororo said, her regal voice calming the tension of the room. "We would like to discuss this situation with you. My colleagues and I…"

"Are you the rebels called the X-Men?" a stony faced man at the table interjected, leering at the otherwise unassuming group of men and women dressed in Spandex-like costumes.

Storm knew a lost cause when she saw one. With a hopeless glance towards her teammates, she replied carefully, "At one time, yes."

"This is madness," he stated firmly. "Without the concerns of having to deal with terrorists possessing biological weapons simply by being themselves, you want to try and tell this council why we ought to go back to having those abominable forms?" A thousands unspoken responses rose in the hearts of the men and women before him, but he continued. "This is a matter of security. Of health. Of _nature_. Humans were never meant to… to fly, or produce fire from their hands! We don't…"

"Now, now Mr. Beckett, these are my guests, as you are," Wyndham chided. He gestured to the remaining chairs in the room. "Please, do sit down! It's best if the rest of you see my presentation as well!"

The X-Men, after a leery look from one another, slowly sat down.

"Well, what are we going to do?" Bobby whispered to Kitty as they took a seat. "Engage in hand-to-hand combat to get our point across?"

"I admit the unorthodox and rather intrusive means by which I implemented my plan for the improvement of mankind were a bit of a shock," Wyndham began.

Remy opened his mouth to sass, but was silenced by a stony look from Storm.

"Forgive me for interrupting," Hank piped up. "But many lives were lost while the changes came into power. Several of us here are lucky to be alive during the transition. You could have killed us all, and without a thought! Now that is…"

"Ahh yes, the inevitable loss of life. Dr Henry McCoy, a great scientist in his own regard, brings up a worthy and unavoidable questions. Looking into my research, I found that the number of casualties from my plan was comparable to the average number of death per day from car accidents."

A murmur started around the room but was stopped by the host raising his hands. "Now, Dr McCoy, your expertise in research is with the Legacy Virus, correct?"

Hank's heart fell as he realized where this was headed. "Yes," he breathed.

"A horrible and destructive disease that I'm sure many of you are familiar with. Legacy affects those with the mutant chromosome and is fatal to those who contract the virus within a short amount of time. The last months of life for the victim are…very painful, very hard for both patient and loved one to take.

"Fortunately," he continued, bringing up a slide showing statistics. "This threat is completely eradicated. With there being no mutant chromosome to attack, the virus is virtually destroyed. Millions, easily, of lives prevented from premature death. A horrible price to those who lost their lives when the changes took effect, to be sure, but the cure is worth the prevention."

The murmuring took a turn from debating to curious and excited.

"I'll be damned!" Another dignitary jumped to his seat in excitement. "What's not to understand? A major illness has been wiped from the planet, race relations have _never_ been better…"

"The effects!" Hank nearly shouted. "What do you know about the effects of this measure? My body hasn't been 'normal' since I was thirteen! How do you know this is the best thing for my life?"

"Dr McCoy, I do appreciate your presence here, and regret not having your input earlier on in the process. But please do rest easy: I've had a group of researchers working on these very issues. Let me explain…"

Wyndham was on a roll and he knew it. The next forty-five minutes were a myriad of careful planning, years of research and data that made Hank jealous. Before him was a man that had reached his life dream in genetics; Hank's currently lay in the garbage next to the now eradicated Legacy Virus.

"And that's pretty much it. Ladies and gentlemen, is there anything more I could say to convince you?"

* * *

On the flight back, Ororo thought of the adamantium poisoning her lover's veins and of the small children whose lives were cut short because the change in their very DNA. She snuck a glance at Hank, who gazed despondently out the window as they approached the Earth. She tried to block out his words and concerns earlier in the day the thought of future problems resulting from mutants with a rogue gene. Could it really be safe? Could it really be a cure to all the world's ills, the way the UN Council had thought it would as they ratified the new treaty?

The shuttle they used burned brightly as they re-entered the atmosphere. She closed her eyes tightly and leaned back, preparing the words she would need to tell Logan that she failed him. The tears stung on their way down her face.


	4. The Diaspora

_**The present day: August, eight years after Operation: Zero Tolerance**_

It was a sunny, beautiful day in Atlanta. For once, it wasn't too hot or too humid – perfect for walking around or sunbathing down in ATLANTA Park. But Anna Raven was not thinking of that. She was dealing with cobwebs and shadows.

She frowned as she read the letter she received from Charles Xavier. It had taken her a long time to grown accustomed to being a baseline human, but she could hardly comprehend going back to the old ways, much less that old way of living.

_It is detrimental to the fate of the world for mutants to reunite and strengthen alliances before any more drastic measures take place._

The letter explained what was happening with the evolutionary process, and Anna shuddered to think about what was happening to some families. She'd thought about starting her own every now and again, when there was a Mr. Might-as-well-be-Right in the picture, but this letter made her blood run cold at the tale of what some of these newly born children had gone through.

_I ask that you relocate to Westchester in order to retrain, should the event arise that mutantkind once again will have to defend itself. I will be offering my house to those who so wish to stay close, but regretfully have to ask for rent due to the lack of funding._

After years of communal living, Anna was not keen on the idea of moving back to a house full of people. It was nice having an apartment; she had neighbors, but she could leave or take mingling.

_I know for many this sounds like a great undertaking and burden, and given the timing of my reqauest, absurd, but keep in mind that if our mutations are once again active, it (and, therefore, any confrontation) will not be for quite awhile. Hank puts the estimates, given government cooperation and public interest, at two years._

So she didn't have a choice? Her temper flared and she searched for something to occupy her hands. In the very least, she was going to go to that mansion and give that man a piece of her mind.

Halfway down the hall, she stopped and considered one of her greatest fears: confrontation. What would people say after all these years? Who would even come?

These thoughts had her mind reeling, her heart pounding so hard she lost interest in anything she had planned for the remainder of the day.

"Hey Leanne, it's Anna. Can you tell Rick I ain't comin' in for my appointments this afternoon?" The secretary at the law firm where she worked was a dear woman, but awfully chatty. She chose her words carefully, lest her health become part of the office gossip, and amused herself at how her accent got stronger the more stressed she became. "Naw, it's nothing really. I think I'm gettin' that summer cold that's been goin' around. Yeah, I know. Sure thing. Thanks, hon."

She set the phone in its receiver and made a beeline for her closet, sweeping past a hungry cat and grabbing a worn but comfortable Georgia Tech sweatshirt. When she was feeling insecure or nostalgic, nothing felt as safe or wonderful as bundling herself from head to toe, ninety degrees out or not.

Her closet was much too small for all her clothes, so disarray and chaos ran rampant in the narrow indent of her room. Shoes threatened to trip her as she stood on tiptoes, pulling coats and scarves and discarded gifts from the upper shelves.

Anna was searching for Rogue.

"Aww, c'mon," she grumbled as her fingers barely reached the box she was looking for. She finally nudged the dusty cardboard, but eventually got a grip and nearly fell over herself as she raced to her bed to unearth her find.

Fingers shaking as if she feared what she would find, she slowly opened it.

On the top, bright and gaudy among the pastel satin of her bedspread, was her old Spandex uniform.

She sniffed and wiped her nose on her shirtsleeve and lifted it out, fingering it like it was a precious heirloom. Memories stormed the long abandoned fortresses in her brain, places that had been untouched for years. "Oh God," she whispered, blinking away tears.

Below that was a pair of stained tanned elbow-length gloves, the ends frayed and stretched. She pulled them over her hands. Her fingertips had become sensitive over the years, recoiling over their new imprisonment. She didn't even like wearing gloves when it was cold. Taking them off, she scanned the documents in the box. A framed diploma from Xavier's undergraduate program was next, marking her political science degree. Underneath that were the hardcore memories, the ones that made the tears sting even more.

Photos, ticket stubs, brochures she couldn't bear throwing away, even though she hadn't look at them in years. There were her and Jean, laughing over a disastrous batch of cookies; there was Piotr, painting on the porch in the early morning; Logan in a bathrobe and cowboy boots the morning after Scott's bachelor party, actually looking hungover. She wondered how she got away with taking the picture in the first place. And then…

Yellowed and battered, a stern Queen of Hearts stared blankly up at Rogue. It was paper clipped to what used to be her favorite photo.

Her and Remy LeBeau, standing hand in gloved hand in front of blooming azalea bushes, smiling in that way lovers sometimes pull off. It was taken on Easter day in New Orleans almost nine years ago.

A fury of emotions erupted in her heart: sadness, rage, happiness, homicide—mostly stemming from their last conversation together. Plenty of men had come and gone in those past eight years, but this one had the worst effect over her. She had yet to meet a man who wielded that kind of power over her heart. She missed it terribly.

_**March, three months after Operation: Zero Tolerance**_

"What're you lookin' for?"

Rogue knew Remy didn't mean to sound like an ass – truly, she didn't. But for some reason that tone of voice made her skin crawl. The soft hum of the computer in front of her calmed her nerves somewhat, but it still didn't ebb the urge to rip his head off. If she could, that was.

"I'm lookin' for schools," she replied shortly. "I wanna get my master's."

"Oh." He didn't _sound _interested. He pulled a chair up and sat next to her, his brown eyes lively as he followed the screen. "What for?"

He eyebrows arched angrily and she inched her chair away from his. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? I want to go to school! Should I need a reason? If you can't…"

"Chere, calm down. I'm sorry, I said that wrong. I meant program. What are going _for?"_

"Oh." She momentarily felt guilty about the outburst. "I dunno."

"Hmm," he drawled. "You should do law. Raven thinks you're good enough to bust her ass out of jail. Think of what you could do with a _real_ degree."

"I'll decide for _myself_, thank you."

He shrugged and stood up, stretching. "Just don't rush into anything. You'll regret it."

"I think I can handle it, Remy," she replied, her voice laced with annoyance.

"Fine, fine. Suit yourself." He absentmindedly shuffled a pack of cards he'd produced from his pants pocket. "You feel like goin' out tonight?"

"Out?"

"Oui, _out_. I feel cooped up…need to go somewhere, have a good time." He paused thoughtfully and added, "It's St. Patrick's Day, too. Should be a fun downtown."

"Mmm," she replied, not listening, full engrossed in her search.

"We'll get blitzed on green beer and get a hotel room…"

"Uh-huh."

"Invite a couple of hookers and two frat guys we find at the bar…"

"Sounds great," she mumbled, scribbling notes on a pad next to her.

"Then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up, and do it all over again."

She sighed, exasperated with his incessant drawl. "Not tonight, okay Remy? I really want to keep going on this." She looked up at him, gave a half-smile, her glasses almost running off her nose, a new feature thanks to weakened eyesight post-Zero Tolerance. "Maybe later?"

He nodded. "Sure, chere. Later."

* * *

He went out on his own and was back within three hours, without even a buzz. Without his mutation, alcohol and his body didn't get along as well as they did in the past. Plus, with no companion and a brooding mind, living it up didn't have the same appeal it usually did.

"Out without Rogue?" Hank McCoy's presence was disconcerting, at best. Beast's new look still took everyone by surprise, even Hank himself. In the dark, Remy grinned at the thought of a large, furry blue man being less threatening that the burly linebacker-type in front of him.

"Yeah, she didn't feel like goin'. I needed to get out, breath some new air."

"Ah, cabin fever. Don't worry, my young friend. The equinox is upon us, just a few sunsets away." Hank settled himself down on a stool at the kitchen island, Dagwood sandwich and a glass of milk at the ready.

"Pardon?"

"Spring's around the corner," Hank translated. "I'm afraid we're all suffering from the winter blahs." What appeared to be hummus and pepperocini dribbled out of his sandwich as he bit into it.

"I think it's more than that, Henri," Remy mused, pulled up a stool next to him. "It's the house."

"Mmm," the scientist said in a tone of agreement. "Quite right. Without a proper mission or cause, we've seemed to lose our edge."

Remy grinned half-heartedly. "We're finally seein' that we don't have as much in common as we thought."

Hank put his sandwich down. "You really think so?" he asked wistfully. "I always thought we X-Men were bound by much more than a dream."

"So now that it's gone, you care explainin' why half of us have left?"

"Well, as far as young Katherine goes, she's been waiting for an excuse for some time now." Kitty Pryde had taken off two weeks after the final battle, enrolling at MIT for the spring semester. Bobby was the only one with whom she'd kept in touch, and barely at that. "And Warren and Elisabeth always preferred the city…" He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "I hate to say it, but those who've stuck around really have no other place to go."

"That'd be me," Remy volunteered. "Actually kind of surprised myself. For once, I don't _feel_ like taking off. It's lost its touch."

Hank arched his busy eyebrows. "Is that so? Perhaps we've traded psyches. I must confess to being very anxious to leave." He lowered his voice and looked around, making sure no other nocturnal wanderers were present. "I've been offered a research position at a university," he whispered conspiratorially. "I leave within a fortnight!"

Remy beamed. "That's wonderful, Henri! Why haven't you said so?"

Hank looked down . "I'd almost feel like I'd be abandoning this place. I owe Charles so much, you know? And then there's Bobby and Jean and…" He trailed off. Scott's absence still wasn't talked about much. Some things were just still too raw. "I'd feel horrible leaving Jean when she needs her friends the most." He shook his head and stuffed the last of his sandwich in his mouth. "I don't know. Perhaps I'm creating too much of a fuss over the entire thing."

"Gotta do what's best for you," Remy supplied.

"True, true. Well, I'm fuelled up for another night of study." He washed his cup and plate and put them in the drying rack. "Good night, my friend!"

"Bonne nuit," Remy replied, waving slightly. He looked at his hand in disgust for a moment, annoyed with the fact that it no longer wielded such great energy.

Hand had plans. Kitty was living hers. Hell, even Rogue was thinking ahead. What in the world was wrong with him?

* * *

The most obvious benefit to having no powers was definitely having the knowledge of knowing the thoughts in your head were completely yours.

"That's it," Rogue breathed. She'd been lying awake in her bed for hours, her mind scheming with thoughts and plans. She finally settled on one that didn't seem to have too many holes in it. She closed her eyes and snuggled down into her bed. "Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow."

* * *

"Good morning, Rogue," Jean greeted.

She beamed back at her and poured a cup of coffee. "Mornin', Jean! Beautiful day, ain't it?"

Jean's brow furrowed as she glanced out the kitchen's French doors. "It's pouring down rain."

"Beautiful all the same. You know what I realized?" She sipped her coffee and didn't wait for an answer. "I really like rainy days. Cause you know there's always going to be a sunny day you appreciate more sometime after, and you're going to have such a good time then! You know?"

Jean sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "There'll be sun, but there'll be puddles. And puddles remind you that it's been raining."

"But they dry up!" Rogue protested.

"And then it rains again."

"Oh hush. You're such a sourpuss these days."

Jean shrugged, uninterested in Rogue's logic. The stray inhabitants of the mansion wandered through the kitchen throughout the hour, fixing their own breakfasts and interacting very little, apart from an occasional, "Butter, please." Or "Is there more coffee?"

"Pass the classifieds, would you Jean?" Bobby asked.

"Didn't say the magic word," she said, her eyes not looking up from the front page of the New York Times.

"Hank's-the-Cookie-Monster," he answered impatiently. "Now fork it over; jobs aren't going to find themselves."

"Former Cookie Monster," she corrected as she passed the section, looking around the room as she did. "Where is he, anyway?"

"M'sieu Bete locked himself up in his lab last night, around two," Remy supplied from across the table, engrossed in the business section.

"Hmm," Jean commented. "What for? Not like Legacy's a threat now."

"Out last night, Cajun?" Rogue questioned neutrally as she passed behind him en route to the sink.

"What's it to you?" he retorted.

"Curious is all. You got back early."

"Who did this?" Bobby cried as he lifted up the paper for all to see. "Can we highlight something in the paper before we cut it out?"

"Sorry," Jean replied. "You're not the only one looking for work, you know."

"You could start your own accounting firm, Robert," Ororo suggested from her place by the window.

"Nah, too much work."

"But it'd look better on…"

Squirming in her chair, her toes taping the tile impatiently, Rogue burst. "I have an announcement!"

The room quieted as all eyes turned to her. Remy's piqued with suspicious interest.

"I'm leavin' today. I'm goin'back to school in the fall."

Choruses of the usual replies to this statement ricocheted off the light blue walls of the kitchen. "Congratulations Rogue!" "I didn't know you applied anywhere!" "Where are you going?"

"Thanks guys, I knew you'd understand. Truth is, I haven't applied anywhere and I don't know 'xactly where I'm headed," the blushing Southerner replied. "But I know I need to do this, so I'm goin' to do it on my own. Today."

"T'ought dat one t'rough." By the time Remy had said it, he was already out of the room and headed up stairs.

"Excuse me," Rogue said, to her credit, evenly. She rose and quickly strode after him.

The remaining people were silent until Jean said, "This should be good. I'm sure we'll hear them duke it out if we listen at the vents."

Half a dozen former mutants made a dash for the mansion's notorious eavesdropping system.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Rogue yelled as she followed him into his room.

"Just a comment. Y'can take it or leave it." His accent got thicker the more emotional he got. He plopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. "Y'don't have a clue what you're in for."

"Oh really?" she retorted. "I've got news for you, buddy: it's _my_ life, and you've got no right to tell me I'm livin' it wrong."

"Rogue." He sat up and searched her eyes imploringly.

"God, your eyes are so weird brown!" she exclaimed as she tore from his gaze.

"Rogue. You're not used to the outside world."

"I'm not? That's funny, seein' as how I've been livin' in it the past twenty-four years."

"Bullshit. You've been living here, or with Mystique and the Brotherhood…you call that the real world? That shack you grew up in Mississippi, you call that a real home?"

_Slap!_

"See?" he continued, a bitter laugh in the back of his voice. "How long have y'been able to do that without fear of killin'me?"

"Not long," she replied tersely."But I do believe I'll manage."

"Rogue, you can't get in the damn subway without havin' an anxiety attack. What are you gonna do in a lecture of 300 people?"

"You can't get in the subway without robbin' people blind, so who're you to talk?" she sassed back, though she knew hers was a half-truth. "Don't try to fix my demons and I won't tempt yours out of the closet."

"Don't go there," he said softly. "I care about you Rogue. I don't wanna see you hurt."

"And I suppose you're the man to protect me from the big, bad world out there? Gonna sign yourself up to help me out with this touchin' business, too, huh?"

"I…"

"That's what I thought. You're pathetic, you know? I'm not some…"she flung her arms around in the air, searching for the right metaphor. "I'm not some placid _queen_ in that card deck of yours you can just throw around."

By now Remy was up and looking her in the eye. "Play around?" He repeated quietly. "_Play around?"_ His voice jumped decibels. "_It was never a game! _You _know _better than that!"

She flinched momentarily, guilty for having accused him. "Yes, I do know better. And I'm sorry. But it's not going to work for us. What the hell are you playing at, us going off and doing our thing together? You ain't got an ounce of commitment in you, swamp rat, and you know it." She picked herself up and puffed out her chest dramatically. "I'm leavin'. That's final. Don't you _dare_ follow me."

"Then get out," he growled, pointing to the door. "You're leavin', non? Betchya ain't even packed."

* * *

With Bobby's help, Rogue's Miata was packed by noon. With a spectacular squeal of tires in the mud of the driveway, she sped onto Greymalkin Lane…only to return five minutes later to retrieve her forgotten purse.

Remy watched this all from his window, sudden and moody. He hadn't moved since the little red sports car disappeared behind the bare trees for the last time.

"Chain smoking?" Ororo's voice dripped with disapproval. She strode over to the window and cracked it open, the cold rainy wind pulling the smoke and odor outside.

He didn't answer but put out his cigarette. They stood complacently for a few moments when he cleared his throat and said. "You ever think that, just when you be gettin' to know a body, they up and do somethin' you didn' see comin'?"

"Did you really expect her to rush back into your arms when her powers abated?" Storm asked, a little shocked.

"She don't have a clue what it's like. She's gonna go nuts with all those people and…"

"Better she learn it on her own than depending on another."

"It ain't that."

"Oh?"

"I thought… I thought we might go off together and have fun for a lil'while. She what the world has for us plain old humans. " He looked into Ororo's bright blue eyes. "I didn't think she'd do it herself. "She broke his gaze and looked off in the distance, fingering the curtain. "Ro?"

"She was right. Your eyes…" she smiled coyly at her old friend. "They're quite distracting."

"You're changing the subject," he protested.

"Remy, my brother, be reasonable. Rogue must do what is right for her, and you must do what is right for you. No one is happy when another…"

He held up a hand, gesturing stop. "Thank you, Stormy. I see what you're saying."

"Don't call me that."

He sighed. "I can never win, can I? Wit' anythin'."

She kissed his cheek. "We'll talk later. I promised to help Logan with his exercises this afternoon. How about after dinner, we'll talk?"

He nodded as she left, the slight scent of jasmine in her wake. "Problem is, Stormy," he said to himself once she had left, "I thought I had it this time."

* * *

"Has anyone seen Remy this afternoon?" Storm asked after dinner, scanning the room.

"Not since the…um…incident," Bobby replied as he put that night's pot roast in the blender for Logan.

"Gumbo's probably lickin' his wounds," Logan rasped from his wheelchair. "Didn't expect her to lash out like that."

"I think he expected her to blow her top," Jean said thoughtfully as she handed Logan his supper, placing a straw in the cup. "He'd just thought she'd give into his reason. He's right. She _will_ have trouble adjusting to the outside world, probably worse than the rest of us." After a few slurps, she asked Logan, "Does that even taste good?"

Logan smacked his lips. "Liquid diet's only a temporary thing. Doc thinks it's going to be easier on my stomach." He took another sip and answered. "It's not bad, though."

Ororo smiled. "We'll see how we'll you're still liking it by the Fourth of July."

He snorted into his supper. "Fourth of July! Huh."

"I'm going to get Remy. He's probably still brooding."

She rose up the carpeted stairs and knew something was off when she heard the wind whistling from the bottom of his door. "Remy, are you still smoking? You'll burn the…"

She opened the door, only to reveal the darkened room with the window wide open. A paper fluttered on the desk, held down by the lamp.

_Cabin fever. You know how to reach me. Take care._

_-R._

She smirked in the darkness. "Godspeed, brother."

* * *

"What the hell do you mean, Azerbaijan? Are you nuts?"

Mercy LeBeau stopped outside her father-in-law's door, pausing to hear this conversation. The conversation was in heated Acadian, meaning it was either family, Assassins, or the racetrack on the other line.

"You said you were coming home to do a job!" Jean-Luc's voice was, admittedly, a little whiny. "It's not every day New Orleans has a Master Thief with time on his hands to…What?" There was a pause in the conversation. "No, I mean…well." A longer pause, and Mercy thought she could hear Jean-Luc's fists clenching with every passing second. "You take care then."

She jumped as he slammed down the receiver. Cracking the door open, she peeked in and smiled at the site of Jean-Luc looking very sullen, clicking his computer mouse angrily.

She decided to take a chance and poke her head in. "That must be one hell of a Solitaire game." She closed the door before the morningstar his the wood, then took off down the hall, laughing.

"Goddamn kids," the Guildmaster of New Orleans mumbled.

* * *

_**The present day **_

Remy's last words to her were the flame for her fuse, even though it resulted in one of the more hasty decisions of her adult life. Rogue had finally been accepted into a law program, but not before she found herself in a mess of trouble concerning her legal status, which led to a nervous breakdown, which led to three weeks in a rehab clinic. She thanked whatever powers that may be for her psychiatrist, a bright man who specialized in mutant-to-human relations. "You're not the only one having problems," he soothed her. "But you're definitely one of the more complicated ones."

She became Anna soon after. A new identity, a new life.

Being Anna made her feel powerful, powerful to the point of confidence. With the acquiring of one of Raven's more neglected Swiss bank accounts and selling Irene's Madrid and New Orleans townhouses, Rogue felt a little better financially. She focused on her education, squeezing three years of law school in to two. She dated and went out, acquired friends like some collect stamps. The medicine and inheritance had put her in the black, but it was the tequila that gave her the courage on Tuesday nights to do karaoke, a move that led to two of her more serious relationships and a host of a good friends.

"Drugs, money, and tequila," she mused. "Wonder what they have to say about that up at Chuck's."

She glanced at the letter in her hand, still waiting for a response. "Shit."

Going to Xavier's meant facing her ex. Facing her ex meant a good chance of him figuring out that, at first, he'd been right and she'd been wrong. And who was to say – maybe he was in a better place than she was. That'd be unbearable.

"Shit, shit, shit."

_To be continued…_


	5. Planes, trains, and automobiles

Note, after some time: I was switching files over to my new computer and found this, chapter three, now about five years old. (Christ, I could have had a kid in that time!) It made me nostalgic for the good ol' days when I was younger, dorkier and wrote fabulous fanfiction.

This was meant to be a long story with a sequel, chronicling an alternate universe after the High Evolutionary arc that followed Remy through his change from Gambit to the Witness, the twist being his three children and how their lives were shaped, having witnessed the last golden days of freedom to the calculating future from where Bishop comes.

It would have been good, and you would have loved it. I know there's at least two other chapters somewhere out there. We'll see if they ever get published. Enjoy.

One last author's note: I had the habit of writing in British English when I was 17 and in character dialect, neither of which I do now. So don't fret if continuity freaks you out like that.

____________

"Do you feel better, Papa?"

The chirping voice wasn't nearly as grating on his ears as it had been three minutes ago. He wondered how his daughter's voice had gotten to be that squeaky, and he thanked God his other daughter only cried and cooed.

"Oui, ma petite," he replied as he took a large swig of his dark, black coffee. He had contemplated getting a shot of espresso, but he wasn't very keen on being as jittery as his youngsters. "And for the two of you…" he produced a bottle of Mountain Dew. Maybe it wasn't the brightest of ideas for his two oldest children, but Remy was feeling generous. They weren't enjoying this any more than he was. "Have I told you thank you for how good you've both been today?"

"Nope," said his oldest. "We've been tryin', though."

"_Real_ hard, Papa. Tante Mercy tol' us to be good for you 'cause you've been a cranky coon-ass lately."

At the sound of 'ass', a woman sitting nearby gave Remy The Look: the one of righteous indignation, the one belittling any parenting ability he had acquired in the past six and a half years. He fought from sticking his tongue out at her. Juvenile, yes, but effective. What did he care? He wasn't going to see her after today ever again. In fact, if God was gracious, he would never spend two days traveling cross country by train with three small children and only one flask ever again.

Turning to her brother, his daughter continued. "Then she tol' Oncle Theo's wife…"

"Don't call him that. He's your second cousin." Yes, getting out of New Orleans before his daughter charmed any more members of the Unified Guilds was a good, good choice, overlooking the fact that he had no choice.

Rolling her eyes, she continued. "_Cousin_ Theo, then. Anyway, Mercy tol' What's-Her-Face that Papa was cranky 'cause he wasn't getting any.

Remy choked on his coffee, and Ms Eavesdropper's high-arched eyebrows screamed "Unfit Parent!" in volumes. Their innocence was saved when Nora piped up again. "What aren't you getting, Papa?" He started to think of an excusable answer, one for his inquiring duo and another for Social Service's anxious missionary sitting two seats over.

"Didn't she say?" Malachi inquired, incredulous. _He's such a skeptic_, Remy thought. _And I'm going to blame that entirely on his mother. Will you two just drop the goddamn subject?_

"No, she didn't. But they laughed."

"It's vitamins, pro'lly. He's always makin' us take ours, but he never takes his."

Remy saw his redemption. "Of course I don't take _my_ vitamins. Have you seen them?"

"Yeah, they're big and nasty!" the sugared little boy supplied happily.

"And they smell like dog's feet," the prim little girl added.

"Thanks, sweetie. That was very descriptive." _Please, just give it up…_

"So you're cranky because you don't take your vitamins?" his son reasoned.

He picked up the baby from her carrier and bounced her gently on his knee, quieting the distressed babbles she'd been sounding off. "Yes. So cranky, in fact, that I'm think about making all of us take naps."

"Here? In the train station?"

"Oui."

"Who'll watch our stuff so no one steals it?"

"The baby. She just had a three hour-nap. She'll be up until one this morning, no problem."

"How about we play a game instead?" his boy suggested, leery of napping.

"Yeah, a game! Hide an' Go Seek!" Nora exclaimed

_Oh, hell no_! His son was notorious for becoming 'lost', especially in public transit areas. "A game! That's a good idea," he forced himself to say. Meg would be proud. "But I'm tired of hide and seek. How 'bout I choose another game?"

"Okay!" they chirped. He balanced the baby in one arm and downed the coffee with the other hand, desperately hoping for more than what it had contained. "All right. Let's play Graveyard."

His son's forehead furrowed. "I don't think we've played that one before."

"Don't you worry; it's easy. Part action, part pretend. Your favorite kind. What we got here is the night before All Saint's…"

"Halloween," Nora stated.

"Mmmhmm, that's right. We're in St. Louis cemetery. The vampires are out." He slipped into his native accent. "De're _hungry_."

Both children, being good Guild progeny, shivered with fear.

"So we're all in the cemetery at night. It's a full moon, so Le Loup Garou is out, too. Y'know how he loves to eat little children's legs."

"Bones an' everythin'," his daughter whispered, her large dark eyes wide.

Fully into the role, Remy nodded and whispered conspiratorially. Well, whispered as much as one could in a loud, crowded building. "Our sacred task is t'lie down and be very still, not makin' so much as peep or even movin'. 'Cause the moment we do…" _Crack_! His thigh tingled from the nice, audible slap.

Both children gasped, and the baby laughed from the sudden movement.

"Are you ready to play?" he asked gravely.

"Oui!" Both of them quickly lay down on the floor, not caring in their childish ways the state of its cleanliness. Child Welfare Disciple turned up her nose at the sight, but Remy smirked. Both children were down and ready for naps. In victory, the baby blew bubbles at the woman.

"Ready?" he whispered. Two nods. "Okay, start! I'll tell you when the coast is clear."

He smiled. He liked it when he had the upper hand. He liked it a lot.

Hardly two minutes later, his son piped up from the floor. "Papa, this game sucks."

Groaning, Remy leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic seat. This afternoon was refusing to end. _Ororo, where the hell are you?_

______________________________  
_

The group of adults formerly known as the X-Men sat awkwardly around a long oak table in Professor Xavier's dining room. Most wore a still smile usually reserved for strangers, others tried making small talk, to no avail. If a person unfamiliar with the previous antics of 1403 Greymalkin Lane wandered in, that person would mistake this scene for yet another painful reality TV show.

"Is everyone here?" Jean whispered to the Professor, who was preparing a cheese tray for the stiff guests.

"We're still waiting on Anna, Raven, Erik, and Kurt," he replied, popping a slice of Swiss into his mouth.

"Anna?"

"It's the name Rogue's going by these days," he said around chews. "As I would have guessed, it's tough to get a respectable job with an unconventional name."

"That's good then, right? Sounds like she moved on."

"Quite right. They were all flying up from Atlanta. I could have sworn their plane arrived two hours ago. They should be here soon." His forehead crinkled momentarily.

"Professor?"

"Nothing, Jean. I just had the idea that I missed something, or somebody."

"Did you?"

"If it was important, I would have remembered it."

* * *

Ten and two.

Anna's fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel of the rental car. It reminded her of her own car that she had sold before making the decision to move back to New York. It had been a small, sporty car that easily sat two and uncomfortably sat four, as Anna and her girlfriends had found out when they took their weekend trips out to the Sea Islands or to Florida. In her Southern way of nicknaming everything, she had named the car Sugah and realized now that she had never had as bad a vibe ever from that car than the vehicle in which she was currently trapped.

Today she was living a very special taste of purgatory, first driving from La Guardia to Upstate New York for the first time in six years, and second, but the primary evil in her eyes, dealing with the people she had agreed to supply a ride to the said destination.

Sitting shotgun was a sullen Kurt Wagner. He had flown into Atlanta and visited the week before the trip, all in good spirits, but had stopped talking to anyone in the car three hours ago, in thanks to one of the backseat drivers.

In her backseat, sitting kitty-corner to Anna, was Erik Magnus Lensherr, the former Master of Magnetism, and next to him was Raven Darkholme, former shapeshifter, assassin, and spy, just to name a few. Both were considered former terrorists by the government, and both were subjected to lengthy searches at the airport, despite being on a domestic flight from Atlanta.

To his credit, the man once known as Magneto was being rather conciliatory and grandfatherly, hardly giving Rogue any of the troubles she might have anticipated.

No, the real problem in this situation could be summed up in one word: Mystique.

Anna had genuinely believed this trip was going to turn out fine, and the first twenty minutes of their journey – from the hotel they stayed at in Atlanta to the airport – had been just that. They had begun on friendly terms, playing a sort of Twenty Questions with each other during the security checks.

Things took a turn for the worse 30000 feet above sea level.

"I'm nearly done with seminary," Kurt replied enthusiastically to the inquiries made about his whereabouts. "I'm studying in the Alps, but I spent some time in Tanzania doing mission work. I feel I have really found my calling." There was a calm about Kurt that really did express that he felt confident in that decision. The calm would be ruptured momentarily. "And you, sir?" he asked Magneto formally.

"Retirement!" Erik replied with a grin. "I've taken it easy the past few years." He tapped his chest lightly. "Doctor says it's good for the heart. I'm not one to belittle the expertise of trained professionals, so I lay off the heavy duty activity and greasy food and swig back a glass of red wine every afternoon right before my nap." They both laughed while he added, "Two if it's hurricane season."

The talk died down for a few minutes while each former mutant swilled their complimentary drinks from the beverage service, and then all hope of the trip continuing on well died in Anna's heart.

"Kurt."

"Yes, Raven?"

"Aren't you going to ask what I've been up to?"

"Rogue told me last week, and I assumed Erik knew," he said carefully, not wanting to infuriate the woman who'd given birth to him while currently in flight on a Boeing 737. "But it was rude of me to leave you out. My apologies."

She ignored him and went on. "I was in prison up until a few months ago. The chaplain thought I would make a better use to society by doing community service rather than wasting away in that Bastille…"

"It was hardly the Bastille, Momma," Rogue interjected from above her chick lit novel. "That place was a county club for rich people who needed their wrists slapped. Martha Stewart made you muffins during her stint."

"…however, you _still_ did not succeed in breaking me out."

"Give it up."

"So you have been talking with to the chaplain," Kurt gathered, directing the focus back in the discussion. "Has it done you much good?" He asked earnestly.

"Well, of course!" Raven answered. "We got to be quite good friends, and after all, I got out, didn't I?"

"Just by your actions around the chaplain?" Kurt attempted to reason this in his head.

"Just by my actions," Raven affirmed, mouth twitching. "After all, it was there I learned that faith without works is dead." As Kurt turned to her, bright eyed and excited to discuss these very pressing matters of salvation theories and theology, a very wicked grin appear on her face.

"_Mein Gott_!" he nearly shouted, swearing in German and causing a few passengers to look back. His voice dropped down to a hiss. "How could you? Do the vows of chastity mean anything to you, even if they don't _apply_ to you?"

"Oh, don't be such an uptight Catholic. She was Episcopalian."

Rogue leaned back in her chair and stared straight at the seat in front of her, sipping her red wine tight-lipped. Then she prayed for turbulence.

"Hmm." Erik had been quiet throughout all of this. "The ruble's catching up with the kroner. This should be interesting."

It had been a long flight. The car had been deathly silent so far

* * *

Remy was getting mad. He hated crowds when he wasn't working, detested public transportation, and was even angrier when forgotten.

His baby was fussy, his older children bored and cranky, and he didn't blame them one bit. The line at the information counter had been infinitely long, seemingly without end. But finally he got to the front and asked his one question that merited the thirty minute wait.

"I need the number for the Xavier Cooperative, in Salem Center. Could you look that up for me?"

The world-weary civil servant stared back at him and smacked her gum. "There's a phone booth outside the hall. It has a phone book. You can find numbers for the Greater New York region in there."

"But…"

"Next!"

He moved aside, shuffling small children and suitcases. He took a breath. He counted to ten in French, English, and Arabic.

"Papa, what do we do?"

He straightened up. "Well, we'll try the phone booth, won't we?"

The beauty about this day and age is that phone booths are largely deserted and Remy was free to make as many calls as he pleased without being bothered. The problem was that phonebooks, like phone booths, can get outdated. The one in the booth predated his oldest child.

"We're sorry. The number cannot be completed as dialed…" the voice on the line droned as Remy swore. Xavier's number had been changed, apparently.

"Papa, why don't you use a cell phone?"

"We don't have a cell phone, Malachi."

"Why?"

"Because Grand-pere took it." He flicked through a small address book with one hand while his other searched for loose change in his pocket.

"Why?"

"Because we don't live in New Orleans anymore. Shh, shh, shh." He bounced up and down to lull the baby in her Bjorn into calm.

"Why?"

"Because I don't work for the Guild anymore." The last statement left him empty inside the same way "My wife left me." did. He didn't like it.

He tried Ororo's old cell phone number. Now it was Mario's Plumbing, Brooklyn. "No, we don't got no ore rows!"

He tried Belle's direct line so she could go through his e-mail and get Ororo's actual number. His older daughter had accidentally misplaced it while going through his backpack for drawing paper. The line was busy at Belle's, and Remy found himself with enough change for one last local telephone call.

The baby was started to show her displeasure at being slung against her father, arcing her body and clenching her fists in warning symbolism. He toyed handing her off to her brother, but resisted. He wasn't big into the stigma of "oblivious single dad with three children".

He dialed one final number and knew, without a doubt, that someone on the other hand would pick up and sound happy. The number had been the source of salvation, irony, and refreshment in his life B.C. – before children. Memories a decade old danced in his head.

As the phone rang, his two elder children began to spat and the little girl inside her sling began to wail, her small face contorting with angry, red lines. And then, oh!

"Antarctica Bar, Hudson Street. The drinks are big and the memories are short. Did I mention our drinks are big?"

As the baby serenaded the corridor with an F-16 decibel screech and his daughter pushed his son to the dirty, train station ground, Remy laughed with relief. "Dieu, do you know how good it is to hear a friendly voice in town?"

* * *

The sound of traffic up I- was the only sound that sounded through Rogue's rental car. That and the occasional rattle of Erik's newspaper.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I'm enjoying my freedom, Kurt?" Raven asked coyly.

"How was Florida, Raven," Kurt hissed through clenched teeth.

"Just like hell, but with salt water."

* * *

They were the only ones left in the station, other than the maintenance crew. His son was playing with, of all things, his sneaker, and sat on the left side of him. The baby slept fitfully on his chest as he lay across five plastic seats, head cushioned by his Saints sweatshirt and eyes closed, trying to block out the strong industrial lights above him. To his right and six feet away from her brother sat Nora, finger knitting what appeared to be a piece of lint.

"I think they forgot about us."

"Papa, they know we're _here_, right?"

"Malachi Jean-Paul LeBeau, you ask that question one more time and you're changing Sophie's diaper, I swear to God."

"Why don't we take a taxi?" Nora asked.

"We don't have the money."

"Are there buses?"

"We'd already be on a bus if there was one, stupid," Malachi retorted.

"Malachi…" Remy growled warningly.

"So who's coming to get us, Papa?"

"My friend Ororo is coming to get us."

"Oro who? Who's he?" his son demanded.

"Who's _she_," he corrected. "She's a good friend of mine."

"And _why _haven't _I _met her?"

"You have. You were just too young to remember. It was before Nora was born."

"Did Mama know about her?"

"Yes."

"Did she like her?"

"Well enough."

"Was it in Beirut?"

"Yes."

"Did she live there too?"

"No, she lived in Cairo."

"That's in Egypt."

"Trés bien, mon fils."

"Is she pretty?" Nora piped up from her side, knitting now forgotten.

"Gorgeous," he replied.

"Did Mama know you thought that?"

"She said so herself."

"Does your friend know Oroororo is a very hard name to say?" Nora continued. Eyes still closed, he laughed heartily, temporarily not caring he was dangerously close to waking up his colicky princess still sleeping on his chest.

"You don't have to call her Ororo," he told them.

"We don't?" Malachi asked, once again incredulous.

"Nope." A grin appeared on his face. "You can call her Stormy."

________________

"Oh, Goddess!" Ororo swore fifteen minutes later as she hurried into the station. Both children had finally passed out from exhaustion and Remy had never looked more grateful to see his friend. "Don't tell me how long you've been waiting."

"I tried calling," he explained as he sat up and arranged baby in the Bjorn. "But you changed your phone number."

"Nevermind that, it was my error. Now sit still and let me get a look at you." She cupped his face in her hands and stared at the normal brown eyes. They were a warm brown now and matched his hair. "It still gets me, every time."

"And your hair?" Remy replied, fingering a long, dark lock. "It looks nice, chere."

"Thank you. Logan says it makes me look fifteen years younger." She took a sleeping little girl in one arm and a suitcase in another.

"Can't beat that. How's he doing these days? You said he was seeing a new doctor in your last e-mail."

"Yes, it's really done wonders. Was that the last time I wrote you? Oh, enough of that now, you'll see when we get back. Mercy, he's gotten big!" she exclaimed in reference to the six-year-old boy he balanced in one arm.

A proud papa smile broke out on his face as he looked down to his oldest. "He's grown a little bit, non? Wasn't more than a year old last time you saw him."

"And you have now two more! Although, I'll have to warn you," and with this she looked him squarely again. "Only Logan and the professor know you're coming with your children."

Remy grinned. "What, they can't see Remy as a family man? If they can do it, so can I!"

"That's the thing," Ororo replied. "No one else has."

He blinked at her. "You're shittin' me."

"No, I'm serious!"

Remy shook his head as they exited the building. "Seven whole years and I'm the only one who settles down? Crazy."

________________

The windshield wipers sloshed back and forth, squeaking with every move.

"I heard about Margaret," Ororo said quietly in the silence of the car.

"Did you now," he breathed. She noticed how he still used a few of her inflections, the laughing lovely voice of a woman she had met so many years ago in Beirut still invaded his own accent.

"From Mercy," she confessed. "When we were tracking you down. She didn't mean to blurt it out, and you never said anything about it when you called but I figured when the time was right for you…" She looked at her hands, wringing them and searching for the right words. "I'm so sorry, my friend."

He didn't react, just continued to look ahead on the rain-battered road, his knuckles white and tightened around the steering wheel. _Goddamn well-meaning_ _sister-in-law_. "S'ok, Stormy."

"Not, it's not," she whispered, in case the older children were awake in the backseat. "You loved her."

They were at a stoplight. If she looked out of the corner of her eye, she could imagine its red reflection was his natural eye color. "I'd rather not talk about it now."

"I understand." She opened her mouth to continue on the subject, but refrained. "The children are wonderful, though. Your daughters are beautiful little girls and Malachi's so grown up."

No answer. _I've alienated him_, she thought.

"Remy?" she tried again.

"Hmm?"

"The light's green."


End file.
